


Group

by ekwakthyla



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, DBT, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Our Boys have Issues, Therapy, but it's nothing they can't help each other improve, but not from the usual problems, it's about healing, steve is an anxious boi, this isn't dark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23230270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ekwakthyla/pseuds/ekwakthyla
Summary: Recovery: the long, hard process of creating a person from the rubble of who you used to be.Steve and Bucky are just two men in the same therapy program who give each other something to fight for.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 9
Kudos: 42





	1. Module One: Mindfulness, Week 1

**Author's Note:**

> CONTENT WARNING for MENTAL ILLNESS
> 
> Hey y'all! This is my first multi-chapter fic yeet.  
> It deals with some pretty serious issues, so please know your limits before proceeding. That being said, it is not my intention to depict anything graphic nor to romanticize mental illness. Everything here is based on my own experiences. Please chime in if you take issue or have suggestions! 
> 
> This fic is not about being mentally ill. It is about recovery. No one is without hope. 
> 
> Keep on keepin' on

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/134201923@N07/49679942752/)

Bucky really, _really_ didn’t want to be here. He’d rather be at home in his shadowy basement apartment straining to hear Nat’s light footsteps above his head. He’d rather be home with his parents, watch them sweat while trying to ask how he’s doing.

Actually, he’d rather be anywhere but here. A shark tank. The plot of a SAW movie. Anywhere.

But here he was, all six feet of him crammed into one of those flimsy waiting room chairs. The little room was full of them, each equally unstable for anyone above the age of ten. They were arranged in a circle. That’s never a good sign.

As people started to filter in, Bucky found he couldn’t rest his eyes anywhere without them landing on another human. So he tipped his head back and took in the tiled ceiling instead.

He _had_ to be here actually. It was a condition of his return to university. Get out, go to therapy, or don’t come back. They’d used polite words like “medical leave” and “treatment program” but it boiled down to the same thing.

It’s not like it’s his fault they’d found him “unresponsive” in his dorm after a “suicide attempt.” Well that part’s his fault, Bucky has to admit, but it’s not like he asked them to freak out about it. It was just another Tuesday to him, unfortunately.

An unfairly handsome man shut the door behind him and sat down in the last available chair.

“Alright guys, listen up,” This one was gonna be serious if there was no ‘welcome’ to start. “My name is Sam and I’ll be leading this group. I could tell you my credentials but we’ll save that for when you come to your individual sessions since they’re on the wall in my office.”

He smiled broadly, revealing a slight gap between his two front teeth. Despite his genuinely un-charming statement, Bucky found him annoyingly charming.

Not charming enough to pay attention to the following speech, however. Dialectical behavior therapy blah blah emotional instability blah blah blah. As previously stated, he didn’t want to be here.

* * *

Steve was nervous. Scratch that. Steve was really nervous. Maybe even on the verge of panic. Ok, definitely on the verge of panic.

He felt drops of perspiration rolling down his sides but it didn’t matter. The only thing that mattered was controlling his breathing so no one could tell how nervous he was.

He wanted to be here, really, he did. It’s just that every cell in his body wanted to be somewhere else. No big deal really. No different than any other day of his life.

He’d held out for as long as he could but after his fourth ER visit for an asthma attack that turned out to be another anxiety attack instead, he really couldn’t avoid trying a new treatment anymore.

So here he was. Taking a stand. Making a change. Did he sing Man in the Mirror to himself before coming to group? You bet he did. Did it help? You bet it didn’t.

While the group leader gave his opening speech, Steve let his eyes wander from his wringing, sweaty hands. He clocked a gaunt girl on his left and a laid back guy in a ratty purple t-shirt a couple seats to his right.

Steve let his eyes wander up, catching on a smooth leather glove that sparkled faintly in the fluorescent lights. Moisture? Oil? Glitter? He really couldn’t tell.

The glove was attached to a surly man dressed all in black. Strands of brown hair framed his face, falling from a decidedly unthreatening bun. Steve was fascinated by these little dichotomies of soft and hard.

He watched as the man absentmindedly scratched at the sleeve covering his left arm.

He was still watching as the introductions going around arrived at him. Welp, so much for perfectly avoiding his anxiety.

“Steve?” Sam asked, glancing down at the papers in his lap to check his guess, “go ahead and introduce yourself. We’re doing name, occupation, and one of your goals for this program.”

Steve swallowed slowly, trying to quell the utter chaos taking place in his body. His stomach was roiling and his mind was going a mile a minute with ‘what ifs.’ What if he said something dumb? What if everyone thought he was an idiot? What if they kicked him out for being such a loser?

“I’m Steve,” Steve chuckled nervously, “I’m an artist, and I’m really hoping to be less anxious?”

His voice ticked up on the word anxious as if asking for permission to say it.

Immediately after he finished, Steve slipped into dissociation. Forget, forget, forget, he told his brain. He had to yell above the thoughts screaming FAILURE over and over.

Steve snapped out of it once he saw the gloved hand across from him rise in a tiny wave.

“My name is Bucky,” the enigma said, “I’m a graduate student in engineering and I’m here so they let me go back to school.”

He ended his introduction with an uneasy smirk. That curl of the lips that made Steve think Bucky was unusually insecure in this situation. Not surprising. Group therapy isn’t exactly a typical place to be. 

* * *

Steve. So that was the name of the beefy guy across the circle from Bucky. Steve was stacked, sure, but he was also beet-red and vibrating slightly. Bucky felt a slight twinge in that place he used to feel things. You know, his heart.

Sam was handing out the diary cards they’d need to fill out daily. Bucky, who had only zoned in to snoop on people’s introductions, zoned out again.

The truth was that Bucky had already done DBT before. He was practically an expert at this point. He kept being forced back into it because it was the best way to treat his...habit. It just had never stuck.

Or, more accurately, Bucky had never stuck with it. He did some of the homework. He filled out his diary card an hour before group. But after he “graduated” he went right back to doing what he’d been doing for a decade now: destroying himself.

He didn’t really see what the big deal was. At the end of the day, it was his body, his life, his decision. He was a grown-ass man, why wouldn’t everyone leave him alone?

* * *

Steve, on the other hand, knew he had a problem. He’d just never believed it was a problem he could fix.

For the longest time, he thought all this was just the way he was. His anxiety had cost him so much. Relationships, friendships. And given that he didn’t have any family, that was pretty much the extent his human interaction. He was so, deeply lonely.

His job made it easy to work from home. He took commissions over the phone and returned the digital art via email. It was for the best, really, his anxiety ramped up when he left the house.

Or interacted with people. Or when he thought of the future. Or when he reflected on his life. Or when he thought about that time in 10th grade when his mom caught him with his hand up Cynthia’s shirt.

This isn’t the life his mom would have wanted for him. Isolated and miserable with no change in sight. No, Steve is sure she’d had a sunnier version of his future in mind.

It was that thought that had made him actually call the number on the card the ER nurse had given him. He thought of his mom each time his brain started to convince him to call it all off. He thought of her now as his urge to run reared its ugly head.

Steve was still thinking of his mother, half an hour later when he was packing up all his new papers into his bag.

“Hey man,” purple-shirt-guy was standing over him, looking totally relaxed, “I like your shirt.”

Steve looked down. He was wearing a white t-shirt. What.

“Thanks?”

Purple-shirt-guy was already gone by the time Steve heard a stifled laugh. He looked up from his belongings to see Bucky, who shrugged and walked away.

Steve was even more confused. But he wasn’t confused enough to miss the way Bucky’s black jeans hugged his ass, the clomping of his boots making it bounce a little more than necessary.

Hey, who says anxious people can’t dream?


	2. Module One: Mindfulness, Week 2

“This is week two, so we’re actually going to start digging into the material. You guys ready?” Sam looked around the room at the chorus of frowns and ambivalence. 

Steve managed a very slight nod.

“Right, well, our first module is Mindfulness. This one is actually so important we’ll do it between every other module too. Does anyone know what mindfulness is?”

Sam let a few beats of silence fall before soldiering on.

“Mindfulness is an awareness of the present moment. It is accepting that moment as it is and not wishing for anything different.”

“Are we going to have to meditate?” Purple-shirt-guy was wearing that purple shirt again. His name was Clint, according to the name tags Sam had remembered to bring this time. 

“Nah. Meditation is a form of mindfulness practice but it’s not the only kind. Let’s do an exercise right now. Close your eyes and focus on your breathing. That’s it. Let thoughts come and go, don’t cling to them. Just notice your breathing for a few minutes.”

Sam looked around the room as if expecting some sort of resistance from the deadened, skeptical faces around him. 

“Starting…” he looked at the clock hanging above the whiteboard, “now”

After a brief hesitation, Steve let his eyes close. He tried to slow his breathing to a non-panicked human level. _Just relax_ , he told himself. But instead of relaxing, his brain seemed to perk up. Was he doing it right? Was his breathing too fast? Oh my god, he’d forgotten how to breathe. In, out, right? Or was it out, in? Why didn’t this feel natural? Breathing was literally the most natural thing!

“Ok guys, that was a minute and a half,” Sam roused them.

Steve let out a slightly choked noise and Sam eyed him.

“How did that feel? Let’s go around the room. Steve, you can start.”

Jesus, a call out? Was that even ALLOWED in therapy? 

“I, um, forgot how to breathe?” Steve answered.

“That can be normal, though I know it doesn’t feel good,” Sam replied gently, “It’s a result of an anxious brain focusing too hard. Mindfulness is a balance between focusing and letting go.”

Steve looked down into his lap. He couldn’t even breathe right, for fuck’s sake.

“Hey man, this stuff is hard. It takes practice,” Sam looked as if he desperately wanted to pat Steve on the back but had to hold himself back. “Does anyone else want to comment on their experience?”

No one moved a muscle. They all threw Steve under the bus, just like that. He glared at them.

* * *

Bucky watched Steve attempt a glare. It really didn’t suit his face. Before he knew what he was doing, Bucky opened his mouth.

“My mind drifted a lot. It was hard to stay focused.”

“That’s normal, too, unfortunately,” Sam responded, “But we’ll get those brains trained up in no time. Now, let’s learn the skill ‘Observe.’”

Sam pulled two objects out of his tote. A succulent in a jar and a kiwi. 

Bucky was impressed. In all his years of DBT, no one had brought such interesting objects for this activity. A kiwi? Where did he even get that?

“Ok, we’re a small enough group that we’re just gonna go around the circle. Pick an object and make an observation about it. No judgments!”

Sam gestured at the wane girl to his left. “Wanda, you start.”

Wanda looked like the last thing in the world she wanted to do was talk. Bucky could relate. 

“Ach. The kiwi is brown.” A faint trace of an accent wound its way around her words. Bucky was immediately curious. The wobbly vowels and harsh consonants sounded surprisingly like home. 

Bunny! He had called his grandmother Bunny, needing to name her before he could wrap his tongue around ‘bunica,’ the actual word for grandma. Wanda’s accent reminded him of Bunny’s.

It was Steve’s turn to observe. He managed to squeeze something out despite looking nearly apoplectic with anxiety. 

“The plant is small.”

Sam nodded enthusiastically and turned his attention to Clint, who wasn’t paying attention. It took a couple of tries but ultimately Clint visibly phased back into the present moment. 

“Say something about one of these things, man,” Sam gestured at the two items laid out on the tiny table between them.

“That rock is ugly,” Clint provided, pointing at the kiwi. 

“That’s a judgment. You’re putting your own opinion on it. We want just the facts.”

“That rock is hairy,” Clint substituted. 

“Perfect,” Sam turned his blinding attention to Bucky.

“The succulent has three big leaves,” He supplied, a little bitterly. He hated mindfulness.

“Yes, great work, guys!” Sam looked like his kid had learned to walk. Actually, more like his dog had successfully taken a dump. “For homework, we’re going to do the same thing we did in group today, but towards our thoughts and emotions instead! Now get out your diary cards so I can count them done!”

Bucky pulled out his empty one. Steve and Wanda both provided perfectly filled out sheets. Two type-As, really? Bucky stopped just short of rolling his eyes. Clint literally had nothing to show. He hadn’t even brought a bag or a notebook. Bucky had everyone pegged now, easy.

* * *

Steve closed the door to the outside world and took out his homework. Better early than never. He was exhausted from group but the idea of forgetting to do his homework easily overshadowed how he felt now.

Observing his thoughts and emotions, how hard could that be? He looked at the worksheet which had columns for naming the thought or emotion and recording his observations.

Ok, what was he feeling now? Exhaustion. Is that an emotion? Sure. What does it feel like? ‘Like I have no bones,’ Steve scribbled down. 

What else was he feeling? Embarrassment, for even opening his mouth during group. ‘I looked stupid,’ he wrote. It would take him a day or two, but he’d erase those words after recognizing them for the judgment they were. Steve was many things but a slow learner was not one of them.

* * *

“Hey, Nat!” Bucky yelled as he slouched through the door, “There’s a hot guy in group!”

Nat hadn’t been home last week, so Bucky had had to hold that thought in until now. 

“Not again,” came the reply from deeper inside the modest apartment. Nat let him live in the finished basement apartment of her walk-up because she was a real adult, with a SALARY, and could just, like, do things like that.

“Ugh wow,” Bucky entered her bedroom to find Nat curled up with Liho, her cat. He let himself feel a tiny flicker of warmth at the way the two fit so perfectly together.

“Jamie,” she admonished, “You can’t keep leaving a trail of broken people in your wake.”

“Yea, yea, I’m sworn off it,” Bucky agreed, “But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate handsome when I see it.”

Nat rolled her eyes and scooted slightly to the left. Bucky took the invitation for what it was and made himself comfortable.

He’d already found himself making concessions for Steve. Speaking in group wasn’t his style at all, but here he was, piping up. He felt bad for them all. Well not Clint, maybe, the guy seemed pretty normal so far. But Steve and Wanda were so...troubled. They made that hole in Bucky’s chest ache a little. 

Toughen up, he told himself. Bucky Barnes doesn’t go soft for anyone. Except Nat. And Liho. And Bunny, when she was still alive. But those were all exceptions, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise we won't always go this slow. time jumps are coming, we're not gonna go skill by skill through DBT lol. 
> 
> let me know if I'm boring you with therapy stuff!
> 
> p.s. bunica is grandmother in Romanian


	3. Module One: Mindfulness, Week 4

“Y’all sit in the same damn spots every week,” Sam grumbled, “as we say in DBT, the only constant in life is change.”

Bucky actually rolled his eyes at this one.

“Okay everybody up!” No one moved. “I’m serious. Everybody stand up.”

Clint, Steve, and Bucky reluctantly got to their feet. So did Wanda, but she clutched the arms of her chair a little desperately first and took a few strengthening breaths. No one noticed it but Bucky. He knew what to look for. 

As soon as Wanda reached a standing position, she wobbled momentarily and collapsed. Bucky got there fast enough to catch her head before it hit the carpeted tile. 

Steve let out a squeal. His arms were outstretched in an aborted attempt to help. Even Clint looked shaken. 

Bucky rested her head on his crossed legs. Sam, who had been momentarily frozen by fear, helped stretch out her body. Bucky combed her long, chestnut hair away from her face. Wanda’s eyelids fluttered. 

“Should we call someone?” Steve asked.

Sam cleared his throat from his new position crouched at Wanda’s side and opened his mouth to answer.

“Give her a moment,” Bucky cut in.

Wanda opened her eyes. Her eyes went wide as she took in the scene around her. Her cheeks flushed in both embarrassment and anger at herself. She tried to sit up but Sam pushed her gently back onto Bucky’s ankles. 

“I’m so sorry!” Wanda closed her tear-filled eyes, shame coursing through her. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Bucky stroked her hair, desperately hoping that wasn’t violating her boundaries. She didn’t even seem to notice.

“Wanda,” Sam put his Therapist Voice back on, “what happened?”

Steve crouched down beside her with a paper cone of water from the cooler in the corner of the room. Bucky helped her sit up to drink it.

“I, um…” this time as Wanda closed her eyes, tears fell.

“Wanda, did you bring a snack?” Bucky asked.

Wanda met Bucky’s eyes gratefully and gestured to her bag under her chair. Clint brought it to her. She rustled inside it for a moment before producing a cup of unsweetened applesauce and a spoon.

Sam had caught on and no longer seemed ruffled by the shock. He was a good therapist but still young and inexperienced. 

“I need to ask you something,” he addressed Wanda softly, “we are generally encouraged to call EMTs when something like this occurs, but in DBT we do it a little differently. I know you have a treatment team that includes doctors looking after you. Do you think I should call the EMTs?”

Wanda appeared to genuinely consider this for a moment before lowering her chin.

“No. This doesn’t happen that often anymore. I’ve just had a really bad day.”

“Okay. I am going to contact the rest of your treatment team. I’m also going to ask you to stay a little after tonight if you can to debrief. Does that sound reasonable?”

Wanda nodded. 

“Back to your seats now,” Sam addressed the group, “Thanks guys for your help.”

Bucky and Sam helped Wanda into her chair and returned to their seats.

“Thank you,” Wanda whispered, just barely loud enough to be heard. 

* * *

“Do you know how Wanda’s doing?” Bucky and Sam hadn’t even made it to the office yet for individual therapy. Sam shifted his shoulders towards Bucky. His right side clipped an open doorway as a consequence. The hallway was stupidly narrow.

“Ouch, I’m sorry, man,” Sam looked like he was having a rough day. Bucky was genuinely sorry.

“Oof. She’s okay but I’m not at liberty to discuss it in any more detail.”

“Right, of course.” Bucky felt weirdly chastised by the remark. This ‘getting in touch with his emotions’ thing was really fucking annoying. 

They reached Sam’s office and took their regular seats. Bucky, on the right side of the plush, blue couch and Sam in the fancy chair across from him. The brown leather contraption was slightly too small for the large man and Bucky enjoyed watching Sam fold himself into it every week. 

“So how are YOU doing, man?” 

“Uhhhhhh…” How WAS he doing? It’s only been a week but already everything seemed fuzzy to Bucky. 

“Did you bring your diary card? We can start there.”

Bucky just blinked.

“Come on, man, now we’ve gotta do a behavior chain and everything.”

Bucky opened his mouth to sass but to his dismay, his face crumpled instead.

“Everything is a mess,” he wailed. Sam just waited politely. 

“I mean, I’m still going to work and mostly eating meals. But everything else just falls apart. I spend a lot of time sitting on the stoop, smoking, and wondering if I’d be better off dead. And I get so worked up about the answer that I put my smoke out on my-”

Bucky looked down in shame but he rallied before Sam could latch onto that last bit of information.

“I’d been okay before I started all this dumb therapy stuff again. I mean I was self-destructing, duh, but it felt okay. I was numb. And now I’m having all these...things...in here.”

Bucky gestured wildly toward his chest. 

“Those are called feelings.” Sam looked more amused than worried. 

“Well fuck that.” Bucky glared at him.

The fucker actually CHUCKLED.

“I hate to say it, Bucky, but this is actually pretty common.” Sam uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “Therapy can open up a whole can of worms. That’s the point, really. Open the can and then we untangle the worms one by one.”

“But I’ve BEEN in therapy!!!”

“True, a lot of it, from what you’ve told me. But sometimes it just clicks. Sometimes it’s the therapist or the kind of therapy. Sometimes it’s just the timing. Maybe you’re finally ready.”

“Ugh.” 

“Right. So it looks like we’ve got some behavior chains to do.”

* * *

Steve was sweating it out in the waiting room. He’d picked up a magazine to flip through but he put it back down upon realizing his hands were dampening the pages.

He’d done this four times already, plus his initial consultation and testing, but it never ceased to stress him out. Maybe he should try arriving late. That would probably only stress him out more.

He heard boots stomping down the hallway- this place was freaking small. He looked up to see Bucky coming into the waiting room. Steve stood up automatically.

Bucky looked like a thunderstorm incarnate but that didn’t stop Steve from calling his name.

Bucky jerked his head toward Steve. Steve could’ve sworn he’d seen some of those clouds clear as Bucky recognized him. Steve blushed at the thought. He cleared his throat.

“Hey, how are you?” Steve surreptitiously wiped his sweaty palms on the sides of his legs.

“I’ve been better. How’ve you been?” 

“Oh, you know, anxious.” Bucky laughed at that. A full, loud laugh, louder than Steve thought he had any right to elicit. Steve ducked his head.

“Steve.” Sam stood at the entrance to the waiting room, looking amused.

“Ah, gotta go.” Steve jerked his thumb in Sam’s direction. 

“Yea, watch out for that one today, he’s on a behavior chain rampage.”

Sam only grinned cheekily.

“Well, I’ll see you Wednesday!” Steve stuck out his hand before he could think twice (or thrice).

Bucky grasped his hand and shook it gently. He gave it a little squeeze before letting go.

“See you Wednesday, pal.” Bucky gave Steve a full smile. Then he turned and pushed open the door to the outside world. Steve thought his stomps sounded just a little bit lighter. 

Pal? Steve turned the word over in his brain.

Pal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I honestly have no idea how DBT responds to eating disorder related faints. I mean they probably have to call EMTs legally but this is fiction so I based Sam's response off a fusion of how DBT responds to suicidal threats.
> 
> Behavior chains are basically worksheets you have to do when you fuck up. You have to go through the whole event of fucking up and identify points you could intervene next time. They SUCK.


	4. Module Two: Distress Tolerance, Week 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warning for self-harm!  
> (It's not described in detail, just the immediate before & after are depicted)

“ _ Naaaaaaaat, _ ” Bucky whined from inside his blanket nest in front of the TV, “I don’t  _ waaaaant _ to go out.”

Natasha slipped her hand between the blankets and grabbed onto one sockless foot. She tugged just a little bit. 

“You haven’t left the house in literally 4 days, Jamie.”

“Time is a construct and you know it,” Bucky shot back from where he’d burrowed further into his nest.

“A construct that society abides by. Get your ass up.” She tightened her grip on his foot.

“But Mulder and Scully are about to- agh!!!” Nat yanked, sending Bucky slithering to the floor amid his six blankets. 

“You have ten minutes to get presentable,” she shot over her shoulder as she climbed the stairs back to the main floor.

Bucky sighed, the hair that had fallen over his face shooting up and floating back down with his breath.

* * *

Steve was practically vibrating. This was his second cup of coffee, sure, but he was also out of the house and had been for almost two hours. 

He was sitting, back to the wall, in a charming little coffee shop just a handful of blocks from home. The remains of an almond croissant lay on a dish to his left- and all down his sweater. His sketchbook was propped on his jiggling knee.

Steve’s sketches were getting jaggedy thanks to his shaking hands and knee. He set the book back on the table and tried to calm down.

He took a few deep breaths, counting as he went. In 6, hold 6, out 6, as Sam had taught him. It took him a few tries to actually make the count. 

He was actually here on a dare from Sam. Well, it was a ‘request’ or an ‘exposure’ according to Sam, but it was totally a dare. Sam had challenged him to get out of the house this week for a “decent” chunk of time.

So here Steve was, vibrating out of his skin in a coffee shop and winning the damn dare. Eat that, Sam. 

Steve was still getting himself to calm down when the bell atop the door jingled and he glanced up to see a very grumpy Bucky stomp into the coffee shop. His hair was piled high atop his head and he wore his usual heavy boots but in between was nothing but soft, dark fabrics. He looked so cuddly apart from the ‘don’t fucking talk to me’ written all over his face.

He was following a tiny woman with a fiery pixie cut of varying shades of red. Steve was mesmerized by the way the highlights and lowlights blended together. She wore all black spandex but instead of sneakers they tucked into heeled platform boots. She was a statement herself.

Steve’s eyes slid back to Bucky in the most natural way. He was taking in the planes of his face when Bucky looked up and their eyes met. They both froze. Bucky’s eyes had gone huge. Steve started vibrating again. 

_ Oh my god. What was the protocol here??? Was there proper ‘I know you from therapy’ etiquette??? _

Steve’s hand twitched and he raised it halfway in a wave. Bucky’s head jerked in a way that made Steve uncertain whether it was a nod of recognition or an involuntary response. 

They were frozen together in that connection of uncomfortable uncertainty until the woman kicked Bucky in the leg with her devastating boot and his attention snapped back to her. 

Steve forced himself to look away. He took a shaky sip of his lukewarm coffee and kept his eyes glued to the table. 

* * *

“Nat,” Bucky hissed. 

Natasha tilted her ear up in his direction without looking up from the coffee bar. 

“Nat, that’s him. From group. Steve.”

She somehow managed to raise her eyebrows while keeping a look of total ambivalence on her face. 

“Why don’t you go say hi, Jamie?”

“Is that allowed? Am I supposed to pretend I don’t know him? I don’t know!!”

“And you think  _ I _ do? What do you  _ want  _ to do?”

“Turn into dust.” Nat shot him a disapproving glare and she continued to dump sugar and cream into her already saccharine drink.

“Ugh, I think I want to talk to him.”

Nat handed him his coffee and nudged him away from her with a little smirk.

Bucky girded his loins and headed in Steve’s direction. He made it through the maze of tables fine until he reached the one nearest Steve and stumbled into the chair. The chair slammed into the table making an awful screeching noise. Only then did Steve look up to make eye contact with Bucky.

Bucky scrambled to get the chair and table situation sorted with one hand still gripping his unspilled coffee (little victories!). When he finally reached Steve, he was breathing hard. 

“Hey,” he wheezed.

Not even Steve’s anxiety could hold back the laughter that bubbled out of him. Bucky stared at him, awash in uncertainty.  _ Was he laughing at him? _

Steve felt Bucky’s insecurity on a spiritual level. He stood up abruptly, releasing a cascade of crumbs onto the table, floor, and his own sketchbook.

“Hey,” he croaked. 

The natural thing for one of them to do would be to ask “how are you?” or “what’s up?” But tragically Bucky and Steve both had the conversation skills of a boulder. A single boulder, combined. 

“I’m Bucky,” Bucky stuck out his right hand. His gloved left one gripped his flimsy to go cup.

“Yea,” Steve replied, wiping his own hand on his jeans. He reached out and gripped Bucky’s soft, warm palm. Neither of them noticed the stranger lumbering between tables behind Bucky.

The fellow customer pushed a chair out of his way, which nudged the table behind Bucky. He and Steve were still standing hand in hand when the table made contact with the back of Bucky’s thighs, propelling him forward. 

The lid of his coffee flew off and the contents of the cup splattered across Steve’s shirt. 

“Oh!” Steve breathed out in surprise, taking his hand from Bucky’s to pull his shirt from his skin. He looked down at his chest, then back up at Bucky. The man looked horrified. 

“Are...you...okay…?” It sounded like he could barely get the words out.

“I’m just...warm,” Steve assured him, his brow creased.

Bucky nodded slightly and then, before Steve could say anything else, he bolted from the shop, slipping slightly in his own puddle on the way to the door. Steve just stood there, flabbergasted. He could’ve sworn he’d seen tears in Bucky’s eyes.

* * *

Bucky ran down the sidewalk. He shoved the empty cup into a trash can and darted across a busy street, getting one or two honks from the cars that slowed for him. He didn’t stop running until he was at Nat’s door, key fumbling in the lock.

He ran downstairs to his bedroom and slammed the door. He dove under the bed to recover a small, black lock box. It wasn’t locked, though. There was no point. 

Bucky removed his glove. He flexed his left hand. Wounds at all points of healing ran from his last knuckle to up under the sleeve he’d just rolled up to his elbow. The white and red scars changed shades as he stretched them.

He was crying now, awash in shame. 

_ How could he have been so stupid? He was a fucking loser, why would Steve want to talk to him in the first place, let alone now that he’d basically burned the guy? I mean they were in THERAPY together for fuck’s sake! He was crazy. Literally a fucking crazy person. He should be in an institution, not chatting up guys in a coffee shop. He’s fucking stupid for forgetting who he was. But he’ll never forget again.  _

_ God, he could’ve really hurt Steve! Maybe he did. He probably did. Steve was probably on his way to Urgent Care to get treated for third-degree burns from the asshole in the coffee shop who spilled his drink on him. He was such a clumsy idiot. _

He had already taken the blade to his skin by the time Nat tapped on his door, warning him she was about to enter. The door slid open over the carpet and she came to sit beside him. This wasn’t anything she hadn’t seen before.

Nat dumped the handful of supplies she’d brought down and began her work. She didn’t consider it her job to prevent this. That was Bucky’s job. He was an adult now, long past the locking up of knives and person. She didn’t condone it and she sure didn’t like it, but she wasn’t about to let him get infected either.

She cleaned and bandaged his skin and rolled down his sleeve. Bucky, who’d once fought her on this, shoving away her help and care in the interest of more self-punishment, just let it happen. He was slipping into nothingness, what was the point of fighting anymore?

Nat took him into her arms and just held him. Bucky tried to match her breathing, the slow regularity soothing him into dissociation. 

They climbed into bed together, back into the blanket nest, and Nat turned on the X-Files. Bucky sniffled and tried not to think about anything, especially Steve.   



	5. Module Two: Distress Tolerance, Week 2

“I SAID I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!” 

Bucky stood in the middle of Sam’s small, windowless office, arms crossed. 

“You’re being willful right now, Bucky,” Sam looked up at Bucky from his usual spot.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Bucky shot back.

Sam scraped his hand down his face.

“Look, Bucky. This is therapy. The whole goddamn point is to talk about it.”

Bucky glared at him.

“Alright man, listen. You marked on your diary card that you self-harmed. That sucks but you signed an agreement when you started DBT. You agreed to commit to your safety. You didn’t use your safety plan. You didn’t call for coaching. So sit your ass down because we need to talk through this.”

Bucky flopped onto the couch, arms still crossed, glare still in place. 

“Shame’s a bitch, I know. If that’s what you’re feeling, that absolutely sucks. So let’s talk through it. Let’s exorcise that shame and put plans in place for next time.”

Bucky considered this for a moment. He let out a sigh. “Only because you said exorcise.”

Sam barked out a surprised laugh. “Let’s fucking do this.”

“Let’s fucking do this.”

-

Steve had not been doing well. His nails were bitten down. His jaw ached from clenching. His books chafed from so much reorganization.

He was just so worried. Worried about Bucky. Worried about their tentative friendship. And that worry triggered other worries until Steve was just one big ball of anxiety.

He hadn’t left the house since their encounter, except to go to therapy. He’d asked after Bucky but Sam hadn’t been able to tell him anything. Confidentiality laws and all that. 

Bucky had looked so sad when he’d run away from Steve. But there had also been something else in his eyes. Something raw. That was what worried Steve the most. He’d felt that rawness in the second their eyes had met before Bucky bolted. 

Steve knew rationally that it wasn’t his fault. But his anxiety kept him up at night.  _ Was it his fault? Was it something he’d said? Something he didn’t say? Sure, the coffee accident but he should’ve reacted better. God he was such an idiot for not being more comforting, not acting faster to help Bucky. He just let him run like a goddamn fool. Oh god what if the coffee had been on purpose because Steve was being such a loser? No, no, get a grip. But what if? _

Wednesday was coming up so at least he’d have his answers then. Unless Bucky didn’t show. That was a possibility too. 

-

It was finally Wednesday.

Clint sat in his usual chair, tapping out a beat with his foot while flipping a pencil in the air. He sported a brand-new purple cast on his arm. Wanda sat across from him. Her eyes followed the pencil up and down while her fingers twisted themselves in knots.

Steve tiptoed in. He didn’t want to disturb the trance-like state of the room. He set his tote down and pulled out everything he’d need. Then, he waited.

Steve watched the clock go from ten minutes to the hour to five. Bucky was never really early. But he usually wasn’t late either. Thank god for that because being late meant doing a behavior chain in front of everyone.

At three minutes to the hour Sam came in with his stack of materials. He sat for a moment, only to get up two and a half minutes later to shut the door.

Steve clamped down on his tongue to prevent himself from yelling “no!”

The door swung towards shut but stopped abruptly mere inches from the frame. A boot was blocking its way. 

Steve wanted to leap up and cheer. No one else seemed invested but Steve was LIVING for this moment. 

Bucky squeezed past the door at exactly 6pm. He lumbered to his seat and collapsed into it, pointedly keeping his eyes lowered. 

“Just in time,” Sam commented, “How was everybody’s week?”

The group knew well enough to answer by now since Sam asked this every week and insisted on an answer from everyone.

“I tripped,” Clint said, holding up his cast. “Shoes were untied, stairs were present, all that jazz.”

Steve winced with empathy.

“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” Sam replied.

Clint just shrugged. Everyone but Bucky turned their attention to Steve. He raised his chin and imperceptibly squared his shoulders. 

“I, uh, ran into an old friend and it didn’t go as I’d hoped.”

Sam nodded, having been treated to the whole story in individual therapy that week. 

“I ate breakfast every single fucking day,” Wanda shared bitterly. She had her arms crossed, her thumbs tucked through the holes of her sleeves. 

She startled when everyone started clapping for her. Even Clint beat his cast against the arm of the chair making a dull thumping noise. Her gloomy aura lifted just a little. 

“Well I got cookies in the mail from my mama along with an angry note telling me I need to visit.” Sam chimed in.

It was Bucky’s turn but he looked like he’d rather combust than say a single word. 

“I fucked up,” he mumbled and left it at that. 

“That’s rough, man,” Sam said gently, “Tonight we’re actually going to work on some skills that you can use when you’re feeling a fuck-up coming on.”

They worked through the entirety of Distract ACCEPTS before break.

“The whole idea is to wrap your mind up in something else so that it just doesn’t have the space for those bad thoughts. Take your 15 minutes and afterwards we’re going to learn some ways to distract the body instead.”

Sam finished and opened the door to release them. Steve put away his papers and looked up. Bucky was already gone. Anxiety be damned, Steve was gonna talk to him.

By the time Steve made it up the stairs to the waiting room, he was sweating. All the negative thoughts were rushing back in. What if Bucky hated him? Well, Steve reasoned, I guess he was about to find out.

There weren’t a lot of places to look. Steve found him sitting on the curb outside, cigarette in hand. He took a seat beside Bucky, a comfortable distance away. Bucky didn’t even look up. His eyes were glued to the smoke wafting off the lit cig.

“I just like to watch it burn,” he said, by way of exclamation. “I used to smoke them but I don’t anymore.”

Bucky gestured vaguely with his gloved hand back at the building behind them. 

“Bucky, I’m sorry,” Steve began.

“ _ You’re _ sorry?” Bucky sounded incredulous.

“Well, yea, I am.” Steve was taken aback.

“Steve, I literally spilled coffee on you and then ran away.”

“I mean, yea, I guess, but I should’ve done more. I should’ve ran after you. Or just acted more human from the beginning.”

The darkness hid the way Bucky’s lips quirked up in a tiny smile.

“That’s sweet, Steve, you’re sweet. But this one’s on me.”

“Bucky, no.”

“Bucky, yes,” Bucky turned toward Steve just a little, opening himself up.

“ _ I’m _ sorry, Steve. I should’ve stayed. I should’ve noticed that guy behind me. I’m the one that should’ve acted more human from the beginning.”

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve’s voice softened the distance between them.

“It can’t possibly be okay,” Bucky retorted.

“It’s absolutely okay.”

“But the coffee--”

“It wasn’t your fault, Bucky. Stains can be removed.”

Bucky was silent.

“And I love the smell of coffee so…”

Steve’s attempt at levity fell just slightly north of flat. The silence stretched on.

“I didn’t use my skills.”

“You what?” Steve scrambled to understand, “Oh.  _ Oh _ .”

Bucky turned back away, turning Steve towards him as if they were connected at their cores by a tether. 

“I’m so sorry, Bucky,” Steve’s chest hurt from the empathy, “I didn’t mean to-”

“Steve, stop. This wasn’t your fault either.”

Steve closed his mouth and digested that piece of information.

“I just feel things so much. It’s overwhelming. When I’m feeling something bad, I do anything I can to make it stop,” Bucky’s leather glove made a tiny squeak as he clenched his hand into a fist,” And sometimes...I think I deserve it.”

Steve knew better than to reply. He was being trusted.

“I spent a lot of time wondering if you hated me,” he whispered, returning the trust.

Bucky barked out a laugh, “So did I.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“I don’t hate you either.”

Bucky turned back to face the road. Steve did the same. They spent the rest of their break in silence, watching Bucky’s cigarette burn down to the filter. The silence was comfortable. Something small had shifted into place between them.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The skills mentioned this week are ACCEPTS- the distract skill, and TIPP, the alternatives to self-harm skill. Real good ones for when you're in a crisis!
> 
> Leave me kudos, comments, tell me what you like (and don't like)!!!! xx


	6. Module Two: Distress Tolerance, Week 4

Bucky’s frown alone could’ve destabilized the Roman Empire itself with its negativity. He blinked at the flash of Nat’s phone as the camera captured the frankly ridiculous scene within the bathroom that evening. 

He glared at her but she just giggled.

“It’s just- Jamie- you look so...cute!” She managed between laughs, “like an angry little kitten.”

Bucky adjusted his position in the tub, the bubbles shifting around him.

“Look, Nat, if this is about my masculinity, you can remain confident that it is still good and virulent. This is THERAPY HOMEWORK.”

Nat rolled her eyes, “you know I don’t give one lick about your masculinity, Jamie.”

“I would consider that  _ very  _ suggestive if we weren't both such raging queers.” Bucky smirked.

Nat flipped him off on her way out of the bathroom but he could hear her giggling continue down the hallway.

Bucky turned his attention back to his homework. Self-soothe, one of his least favorites. He hated treating himself with anything less than malicious indifference. But here he was, going all in. It wasn’t even really about his dedication to therapy. There may have been some friendly competition started by Clint and encouraged by Sam. 

Bucky definitely thought he was going to win. He had the scented candles lit, shoved into the corners of the tub near the wall. He had bubble bath AND bath salts AND a bath bomb, so eat that, Clint. He had soothing music coming out of the portable speaker teetering on the edge of the tub. He had hot (well, actually now rather cold) tea perched on the toilet lid. And, finally, he had a comic book gripped in his one dry hand. He hit those five senses so hard they were, frankly, a bit overwhelmed.

He’d had a shitty day. His therapy session with Sam had been full of behavior chains so he’d walked home as punishment instead of taking the train. So now he had the beginnings of a blister and a whole bunch of fully-developed shame. He’d gotten his box out when he finally made it home but had remembered the challenge. Full of grump, he’d made the right choice. 

So now he was chin-deep in sickly sweet self-care, his damp hair piled atop his head and his dry hand cramping. He put down the comic book and sunk an inch deeper into the hot water. The bath bomb was glittery so the water shone and he was pretty sure he would too when he got out. Not that he was complaining. He could really get with glitter.

* * *

Steve was sitting in the dark. He hadn’t moved for three hours and somehow it had gotten dark while his thoughts were racing. 

He wasn’t even sure how he’d gotten here. Something had upset him and his brain had just run with it. His anxious thoughts kept coming but they were almost meaningless to him. He was just trapped inside them. 

A realization slowly dawned on him. His mind was trapped, but his body wasn’t. Steve very slowly extended a hand. He could barely see it in the dark. He reached out a foot. All his parts seemed to be in order. 

He stood and very carefully he turned on a light and walked to his kitchen table to get his tote, as if his brain might find him out and launch an attack. He retrieved his therapy binder and flipped through the skills they’d learned.

He settled on the most recent, self-soothe. He tiptoed to his bathroom, gathered his robe, and returned to the couch. He went diving for his phone between the cushions, finding a quarter and something very crunchy first. Thankfully his brain was so occupied with dissociative anxiety that it didn’t have the bandwidth to latch onto that. 

He wrapped himself up and laid down, his phone on his chest. He tapped around until the ocean streamed out of his shitty phone speaker. The waves crashed over him. He felt his body start to relax. His brain was slower to come around.

He didn’t notice the moment all that white-knuckle energy flowed out of him. All he knew was that he felt  _ good _ . 

* * *

Clint didn’t smirk. He was too earnest to smirk. But he would be smirking now if that were his thing. He and Bucky were locked in a battle to the death. A self-soothe battle. 

Bucky could see the smirking energy radiating off of the other man (who wore a purple shirt, this one just slightly a different hue than the last). No matter, there was no way Bucky was losing.

By the time Sam arrived to Group, both men were on the edge of their seats. Metaphorically speaking, since they both favored lounging back as if they hadn’t a care in the world. But Sam could see their energies coursing.

Bucky knew, he just knew this was his day. He’d worked so hard on his self-soothe party, there was no way he was going to lose. 

Bucky and Clint stared daggers at Sam, eager for Group to begin. But before they could even open their mouths, Sam held up his hand. 

“So we had some friendly competition set up last week.” He began, “and yes, this week we will get the results and see who won. I’ve even brought a little treat for the winner.”

Group started with the usual round robin of diary card summaries and updates. Steve shared his nautical self-soothe adventure. Wanda talked at length about the slice of cake she’d savored. 

Then came the two heavy hitters. Clint, apparently, had baked cookies, practicing self-soothe at every step along the way and following a recipe despite his ADHD. Bucky was impressed but he knew he had this in the bag.

Bucky shared his full spa evening with the group, not missing the way Steve’s Adam's apple jumped at his descriptions. He even shared how he was going to use behaviors before he decided on the healthier alternative.

Bucky was proud to share, for once. Usually he had nothing but depressing shit to share so he didn’t even bother. He was too ashamed of most of it anyway. But for once he had a victory to share, even if a small one. 

Once he finished, Sam clapped for him and the whole group joined in. Bucky positively beamed. His heart was pumping with...pride? Yes, that’s what this feeling was. Pride. He decided it was pretty nifty.

“I declare Bucky the winner for using self-soothe instead of behaviors!” Sam said. He reached into his bag and brought out a small ball, chucking it at Bucky who caught it seamlessly. 

“Here’s your prize, man, a randomly branded stress ball!” Sam’s eyes sparkled. He reached into his bag again. “Actually you’re all winners in therapy for using skills!”

Sam threw a stress ball at the three other group members. Sharing the victory didn’t diminish Bucky’s pride at all. He’d actually done something for himself and he didn’t feel like absolute shit about it. Miraculous.

Bucky laughed and laughed as Clint bounced his ball off Sam’s head, starting a brief and gentle stress ball fight. Maybe therapy wasn’t so bad after all.

* * *

Steve was in awe of Bucky’s energy. He had never seen him like this, so full of life. He couldn’t take his eyes off him. Luckily, everyone was so caught up in the competition that no one noticed. 

Steve had related to Bucky when he was sad, troubled, down, all the variations of that side of the mood chart. His heart had gone out to him and it had found some sort of connection there.

But now...now Steve knew he was doomed. Now that he had seen the person Bucky could be, if his illness could be managed, or even just in breakthrough moments...just wow. Steve was never going to forget how good life looked on him. He really hoped he could see it more often.

Steve wondered what life would look like on himself. Would it look that stunning, that sunny? He doubted it but more than ever before he was determined to find out.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic features Dialectical Behavior Therapy, a treatment program designed to treat suicidal and chronically emotionally unstable persons. Curious about DBT? visit my other hustle- dbtskills.tumblr.com


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